A First Time for Everything

Earlier this year we were discussing possible autumn marathons, and I mentioned that I was thinking of applying for Berlin.  Frank said that Karlsruhe was a cracking German city, with a really well-organised flat and scenic course.  That seed took root and before long a group of us were sitting in Hallhill after training one evening to discuss a possible club trip, and agreeing that we’d go for it.  Typically, I went home and signed up there and then – my total lack of German no obstacle to a registration on a German language website. Frau Williamson Nick, aged 90, was on the entry list!

And so it came to pass that six members of the club gathered at 7am on Saturday morning in Edinburgh Airport – Anne, Stuart,  Jennifer, Karen, Frank and me, plus Jo in her capacity as official cheerleader, kit-carrier and round-getter-inner.

From left: Frank, Stuart, Anne, Karen, Jennifer, me

I thought we were going to Germany?

Coals to Newcastle

Meaty Swiss cakes

The World's surliest barista (back)

The Tetris Building

A quick flight to Basel was followed by a bus and then high-speed train to Karslruhe, arriving at our hotel at around 3pm, with plenty of time to get to registration and collect our numbers.

Plaques on the pavement commemorating the 4,000 Jews living in Karlsruhe who were displaced or murdered during WW2

Still going strong on the continent - should have taken orders for pants...

Frank has family in the local area, and so was staying with his cousin Joschi, who became our 8^th man and “guide”.  We arranged to meet them at 6pm in our hotel foyer to head out for some pizza and pasta (Karlsruhe being blessed with quite a large Italian population).  Frank and Joschi arrived at 7pm, having wetted their whistles beforehand.  This became a running joke over the trip.

After several hours of aimless wandering expert guiding on rapidly tiring legs, and with rumbling stomachs, there was a real whiff of mutiny in the air.  I honestly thought that Jen was going to sit down on the pavement and refuse to take another step.  Desperate measures were required so I ran down a side street on impulse and completely lucked out – finding a perfectly serviceable (and reasonable!) restaurant.  Crisis averted and spirits were soon restored.

After an uncharacteristically long and sound pre-marathon sleep (this would be my fifth marathon so perhaps the nerves are diminishing slightly), I awoke and got changed.  After a quick team photo (minus Frank) in the foyer, we made our way to the start.

After my marathon failures* at Edinburgh and Amsterdam in 2014, my hope for the race was that I’d go sub-3, but I felt I would be happy enough with a low-3 that improved on my PB.  And that was what I had been telling everyone beforehand – trying to downplay things as much as possible, conscious that I didn't want to look foolish if I came back with my tail between my legs.  I kept saying that a good marathon (what would I know about that?!) is made up of a lot of different factors, and that any one element on the day could be the difference between success and failure.  But my training had gone well, the course was flat, and the weather could not have been more perfect – overcast, cool and with barely a breath of wind.  I didn't really have anywhere to hide.  And GOD did I want a sub-3! Previous precedent was not good though – cruising along nicely at target pace at both of Edinburgh and Amsterdam (and actually enjoying Amsterdam) before blowing up spectacularly after half way.  I worried that this was because I was going off too fast at the start, and so had toyed with the idea of starting conservatively and building into it in the second half.  But that is simply not my style – I almost always fade as the race goes on, so tend to need a cushion.

On the start line I decided to stand close to Stuart and the pacer with the 2:59 pennant.   We appeared to be outnumbered around 4 or 5 to 1 by half marathon runners.  I floated along in the slipstream of the gaggle of 2:59 hopefuls for the first mile.  Then Stuart came past.  Prompting me to immediately rip up my plan and break free of the 2:59ers.  

Karlsruhe's flag

The next few miles took us out along a dual carriageway towards Durlach.  Durlach was apparently the local capital until a dispute between the prince and his citizens prompted him to throw his toys out the pram, and move his capital – founding Karlsruhe in 1715 and building himself a grand palace (or “Schloss”) for good measure.  Stuart pulled out about 150 metres on me over the first 5 miles, but I was comforted that he was still in sight, the 2:59ers were still behind me, and I still felt in good fettle.  

There then came quite a nice long section of woodland paths, with occasional suburban streets, from around 6 to 11 miles – my favourite part of the course, all things considered.  I’d noticed that the gap to Stuart had started to reduce again, and at around 9 miles was close enough to him going up a footbridge over a main road to say loudly, “who put this f*cking hill here?”  He looked round and seemed pleased enough to see me - “oh, it’s you!”  

The combination of Stuart’s company, frequent entertainment (at times dubious – elderly belly dancers are not everyone’s cup of tea!), unfamiliar and varied scenery, and enthusiastic crowds meant that the first half went by relatively painlessly.  Not long before the half way point we passed a sign declaring 41km – the course route involving two irregular overlapping loops.  Stuart and I agreed that that was a little cruel.  Approaching the point at which the half-marathoners split off towards their finish, there were a good number of supporters and a guy on a PA who gave a name check to Stuart and me, albeit he had a couple of goes at saying “Stuart” and still didn't nail it.

The field suddenly became a whole lot more sparse after the split – on a straight of 200 metres we were lucky if we could see 3 or 4 runners ahead of us.  I don’t remember a huge amount of the next part of the course, so think it must have been largely nondescript.  Or maybe this is just a sign that I was beginning to flag a little, and was retreating into my head so as to preserve vital resources.  There was a definitely a lot less in the way of high-fiving kids, applauding dancers, and giving thumbs up to people shouting “gut gemacht Nick!”  I took my one caffeine gel at 17 miles and waited for the boost to kick in.

What there was a lot more of, unfortunately, was foot/cycle bridges over busy roads.  The upslopes were not welcome but still manageable.  The downslopes however were causing worrying sensations in my hamstrings.  Please don’t let cramp scupper me…

Stuart didn't seem to be particularly enjoying the bridges either.  One of them (the 4^th or 5^th I think), at around the 19 mile mark, caused the first little gap to appear between us.

The course entered the (extensive) garden grounds surrounding the Schloss at around the 20 mile mark.  Reaching the 32km marker at 2h12m on my watch, the mental calculations began.  My Garmin was making positive noises about my average pace, but I think it is prone to exaggerate distance and therefore over-egg the pace.  But if at 9am someone had offered me the chance to run a 47 minute 10k to secure my first ever sub-3 marathon, I’d have bitten their hand off.  And then had the other hand for dessert.

In absolute terms the Schloss is close to the finish line.  However, the course snaked around the gardens, passing the same points on several occasions.  We kept crossing a blue ceramic line in the ground, and also a narrow gauge railway line.  I can understand the organisers desire to make the most of such an attractive feature of the city, but my perception of it was akin to water torture or a death by a thousand cuts. 

And it was at 21 miles that the run really turned for me. Up until that point I had felt strong and had gradually grown in confidence.  Those feelings of strength and confidence suddenly evaporated, as my legs began to feel like lumps of lead trying to pass through treacle.  Maybe I could have a walk?  Just a little one?   NOOOO!!!!! DO NOT F*CK THIS UP NOW YOU IDIOT!!!

At times I think the mental aspect can be my biggest stumbling block.  I certainly think that it was the main factor in my failures at Edinburgh and Amsterdam.  That was part of the reason I wanted to do ultras this year – recalibrating my brain to think of 26 miles as, well if not short, then at least a distance I was used to doing and exceeding.  I tried to remind myself of that at half way when I said to Stuart that, “at least we only had 13 miles to go rather than the 40 it would be if we were doing the Fling”.

This time I was determined to rage against the dying of the light.  I told myself that as sore as it might seem to keep going, it would seem a whole hell of a lot worse to have built this platform and let it slip away.  And even worse to have to start all over again at a subsequent marathon, with additional mental scarring.

I told myself that I had 40 minutes in which to complete the final 5 miles.  Come on, you can manage 8 minute miles to get home! For something to do, I unwrapped the dextrose tablet that I’d been handed by a girl on a stall near the start.

Eventually we were spat back out onto the roads in the centre of town.  But there was a fair bit of twisting and turning here as well.  It became a question of just following that blue line on the ground, and ticking off the remaining miles.  As slow as I felt, this didn't translate to the times on the watch – slower 6s, followed by a few low 7s.  Each mile accomplished at better than 8s increasing the reserves in the bank. 

But I was at the point where tiny things could upset me.  Out of nowhere I became super-aware of the tiny waist-pack I was wearing to carry my gel and the dextrose tablet.  On the spur of the moment I undid the catch and let it fall to the ground in the middle of the street.  A couple of spectators thought it was accidental and tried to draw my attention to it, but I just waved them away.

At 39km, it actually began to dawn on me that I was going to do it.  Do something that means a huge deal to me.  Even before I made the decision to get back into running, a sub-3 marathon was a yardstick.  And it was the headline goal floating around my head once I’d started running again and I’d begun to think about what my goals (even my most unrealistic and ambitious ones) should be.  It was a shorthand for describing someone at club to Jo.  “He’s a good runner – he’s done a sub-3”.  Not, “he’s done a 35 minute 10km”.  I wondered whether I’d cry as I crossed the line.

I didn't though.  Strangely, I barely even managed to raise a smile as I finished.  Instead I simply stopped my watch, checked that my time started with a 2 (2:58:01), and shuffled off to collect my medal.  The elation would come later.  

I quickly found Jennifer, Karen and Frank, who had all completed their halfs at better than their target times – very well done.  Stuart came in shortly after – finishing in an agonising 3:00:15.  He was disappointed at first, but was 2^nd M50, and he has of course already done a 2:55 at Edinburgh this year, so there is no need to feel too sorry for him!

Sadly Anne had to withdraw at around the 20 mile mark due to illness, but she was philosophical about it, I think recognising that it was the right thing to do.

After a good few non-alcoholic beers in “Runners Heaven” (not nearly enough post-race sausage and alcohol-inclusive beer to justify that name as far as I was concerned), and an appointment with the press (Stuart may yet appear in the local Karlsruhe rag), we made our way out of the stadium to find Jo and Joschi. 

Jennifer had a sudden crash which forced her to head back to the hotel, but the rest of us followed in line between Joschi and asked him to proceed without delay to the nearest hostelry.  Which was a classic.  It was like stumbling back into the 70s – the owner, the regular patrons, the cigarette smoke, and the nudey calendar on the wall all looked straight out of Life on Mars. But the first real beer of the weekend was sweet reward.

After a freshen up back at the hotel (which for me involved emptying the contents of the minibar - beer, soft drinks, crisps, nuts, chocolate and all – onto the floor of the bathroom, and working my way steadily through it all while having my bath), we met up in the bar to start the celebrations.  After the customary Frank and Joschi delay, we made our way out to paint the town red.

Involving, first, a folk festival in the park beside the Natural History Museum.  A folk festival that featured the Galloway Dancers, a Scottish country dancing society, “all the way from Nottingham”! The stalls serving generous portions of curry-wurst, steins of cold foamy beer, glasses of wine, cocktails, pastries and more were fantastic though.

When that finished we went off in search of more bars.  We passed any number of suitable looking candidates, including some really quaint looking bistros on small squares with outside table and blankets, but Joschi kept dismissing them as “too expensive”, or “too nice”.  We ended up in a pretty dingy “Sports Bar”, but were all past caring by that point.  Plenty of alcohol led to plenty of laughs, including Frank’s story about the time that he “woke up in a cherry tree”.  It’s well worth getting him to tell it.

Drinking with Walter White...

And his sidekick Jessie/Joschi

I woke early the next morning and decided to take my hangover out for a walk while Jo slept.  It was interesting to pick my way through the town, encountering blue lines on the roads and paths, and struggling to remember having run over any of it the previous day.  

We're all going to the Zoo today, the Zoo today...

Fire Station

Natural History Museum

The morning after the Folk Festival

Catholic church

Schloss just about visible in the distance

That bloody blue ceramic line...

And that narrow gauge railway...

Another of those blue lines...

A fine establishment, stocking up after the Scots had drunk it dry!

In the afternoon, Anne, Stuart, Jo and I (Jennifer and Karen having had to head home, and Frank and Joschi “otherwise engaged”) had a very pleasant trip to the Karlsruhe Zoo – a cross between a botanical gardens and a zoo.  A tremendous place, and a real asset to the town.  That night’s meal saw us go to an excellent tapas restaurant.  Towards the end Frank said that he was going to try to take it easy for his final couple of days.  And then said that he was travelling up to see another cousin.  With Joschi tagging along as driver.  Good luck with that Frank!

Jo was delighted that we had our own "Poirot-style" carriage

Summing up then.  My first time in Switzerland, my first time in Germany, and my first time under 3 hours in a marathon.  Not a bad old weekend.  It just remains to be seen whether my first sub-3 will be my last marathon – the box having been ticked.

(* I should say that, when I use the term "failure", I simply mean my inability to achieve my own goal and the disappointment and self-loathing that resulted.  I realise that you will have your own goals which may bear no relation to mine.  There is certainly no slight intended if you have not, and have no desire to, run a sub-3.  By the same token, there are likely to be people reading this who will regard 2:58 as positively pedestrian, and will ask what all of my fuss is about!)

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the A1

I find myself on another taper, with little of interest to tell you about.  So I’ll tell you a different story instead, one that has nothing to do with running.  The time that I hitchhiked to Sheffield.  Stop me if you've heard it before.

I have to provide a little bit of background. Before I got back into running, I used to play a regular game of 5 aside football on a Thursday night.  Grant, Neal and Craig from the club used to play in it as well.  In December 2005 we had a Christmas night out that involved a meal and then a pub crawl along Dunbar High Street, with the usual rounds of shots being bought.  My round was tequila, which a lot of the guys refused.  I ended up drinking 6 or 7 of them to “avoid wasting money”. 

I have a pretty low tolerance to hallucinogens.  I vaguely remember running home, and thinking it would be a good idea to see how far I could get with my eyes closed.  About 30 yards before slamming into a stone wall and giving myself a gash on my thigh.  But I have no recollection of what happened next.

 

Jo says she found me at around 3am, lying stark naked, sobbing uncontrollably, in the foetal position, on the flag stones at the front door.  With a recently deceased field mouse lying beside me.  And my clothes strewn around the garden.  My belt was hanging from a hook on the bird table, and my father-in-law found my keys buried in the flower border about 9 months later.

Unsurprisingly, and not unreasonably, Jo banned me from further football nights out for a while.

So when we arranged a game of 11s against a team from Haddington one Friday night in the following June, I deliberately didn't take a towel and change of clothes, so that I’d be forced to come straight home.  I was playing left wing and midway through the second half I collected the ball out wide before breaking into the box.  Just about to pull the trigger, their right back took my standing leg for what seemed (to me at least) like a clear penalty.  But the referee waved play on.  Incensed, I jumped up and chased after the defender who was preparing to launch the ball upfield.  I booted him up the hole for his troubles.  Quite hard.

The referee saw it as a good value yellow card, but for me (Clive) it could easily have been red.

By the end of the match I was feeling like a complete tool, so knew I had to go into the clubhouse at Hallhill to buy the guy a pint and apologise to him.  Which I did.  And then promptly got very very drunk.

I got home to find that Jo and the kids were already in bed.  I dumped my wallet on the kitchen table and went upstairs to let her know that I’d got back ok.  But I wasn't ready for sleep yet, so decided to go out for a walk, unshowered and still in my football gear – shin pads and all.  A few weeks before, I’d been walking the dog down near the A1 and found a trestle table that had literally fallen off the back of a lorry.  I thought I’d take a wander down that way again, in case there were some other treasures to be found.

I've always considered hitchhiking to be quite an appealing idea, but at this point had never tried it.  For some reason, the sight of an approaching van made me stick my thumb out.  And, would you believe it, he stopped.  He asked where I was going.  Not wanting to be rude and admit that I was just mucking about, I simply said “South”.  He said that I was in luck, as he was delivering a truck gearbox to somewhere in Derbyshire and could take me most of the way.  Grrrrreeeeaaat….

Now in the cab, I figured he’d probably stop at Berwick or some other place not too far away, and I could make my excuses and just about rescue the situation.  He was friendly though and offered me a cup of tea from his flask and a pillow to get my head down if I wanted.  Although an apparently genuine guy, I suddenly imagined myself being dismembered and then dumped by the side of the road.  I texted my brother to say that I was on my way down the A1 – a clue to help catch my killer perhaps.

I was so concerned for my safety that I fell into a deep sleep and did not wake until 5am the next morning at the southbound Woodall Services.  Located to the south east of Sheffield.  Some 200 odd miles from home.  And some 200 odd miles away from the kitchen table where my wallet still sat.  The van driver explained that he needed to leave the M1 soon, but that I’d probably get a lift from someone if I asked around in the café.  I thanked him and waved goodbye.

And then crossed the bridge to the northbound side of the road.  I had a scout about in the car park, but decided I didn't really fancy chapping on the windows of the parked lorries.  Instead I started walking down the on-ramp to the hard shoulder of the motorway. 

The sun was up by this point, and it was a glorious morning without a cloud in the sky.  But it was hellish noisy as three lanes of traffic rushed by at close quarters.  The next hour dragged on for an eternity as I walked very slowly backwards with my thumb out.  No one stopped, obviously.  It was a difficult first mile of my return leg.

Shortly after 6am I decided to phone my brother and ask where he was.  He’d been working alternate weeks in London and Leeds, and I figured that I could go and see him in Leeds and plot my next steps.  But he said he was in London, so I said “never mind” and hung up. Once he’d woken up a little more, he called back and wanted to know why I was asking.  When I told him, he went into a bit of a panic and said that I should go to a train station where he could buy me a ticket over the phone.  But I’d got this far without spending any money, so decided that I wanted to get back without spending any either.  He did what any self-respecting little brother would do, and phoned my Mum and Dad to grass me up.

While he was doing that, I was having my own separate conversation with the Highways Agency. Or at least two of their number who were busy informing me that it was illegal to hitchhike on a motorway.  Every day is a school-day.  After checking that there were no warrants out for someone matching my description (and I remind you that my appearance was fairly distinctive given the football strip and shin pads), they offered me a lift up the road.  They explained that they had a 40 mile stretch of the road that they go up and down all day, and they could take me to the northern end.  I gratefully accepted and jumped in their 4x4.  They were something of an odd couple – a grizzled bearded veteran type who did all of the talking, and his young protégé who did a fine line in silent looks that put me in mind of Tim/Martin Freeman in The Office.  They dropped me off at the bottom of a fairly steep on-ramp, and the older chap bid me well with “may all of your lifts be from big breasted women in convertibles”.

I then had quite a long wait.  At 9am I thought I better check in with Jo.  I hadn't wanted to call earlier in case I woke her up.  I'm a big believer in perspective, so opened with “I haven’t killed anyone, and I haven’t cheated on you, but… I'm in Sheffield”.  She was more than a little surprised to discover that I wasn't just sleeping it off in the spare room.

The first chap to stop was a boxer from “Brat-ford” called Gary, who was on his way to rip out a kitchen to help finance his next fight – the decider in a series of three bouts against the same bloke that stood at 1-1.  His van was so clapped out that it barely made it up the ramp – the pair of us rocking back and forth in time to urge it up the slope.

This was the start of a string of interesting and diverse characters – I was lucky to get some really great lifts.  Next up was a rep called Paul who said that he’d once run out of money on holiday and had had to hitchhike all the way back from the Greek islands.  His experience was that most of Europe was good for lifts, except for France.  “The French are bastards” was his considered opinion.

My experience of hitchhiking in England was turning out to be pretty positive it has to be said.  I think it helped that it was a gorgeous warm day (it would have been an entirely different proposition in driving rain), and that it was the first Saturday of the 2006 World Cup.  England were playing Paraguay later that day, and the whole country seemed to be surfing a mood of good-humoured optimism, which translated to charity and kindness towards indigent travellers.  

I did still suffer rejection from large numbers of motorists, but at least they looked apologetic about it – Dads gesturing towards their wives and kids in their cars and indicating that there wasn't any room for another.

A young electrician called Sam from the West Country picked me up, and explained that he was on his way to a job in Middlesbrough.  He wasn't too sure of the way, so handed me the road atlas and asked me to direct him.  Which gave me something of a dilemma.  The road atlas was fairly unequivocal that he should be taking the A19.  But the A19 was not where I wanted to be.  I'm ashamed to say that I constructed an argument that he should stay on the A1, and effectively turn right along the A66 at Darlington.  The argument was along the lines that the A19 looked narrower and seemed to weave its way through towns, whereas the A1 was wide, fast and unobstructed.  Slightly longer distance, but probably less time overall.  He bought it.  I am not terribly proud of that.

My penultimate lift was from the supervisor of a security firm called Woody.  The supervisor that is, not the firm.  Woody would normally spend his Saturdays in the central office, remotely monitoring the various sites that they covered.  But today, spookily, a large number of his security guards were phoning in sick.  So Woody was having to go round each site in turn himself to check that things were ok. Bad news for Woody, but good news for Nick, as he was able to take me just beyond Newcastle.  On leaving the van, Woody chucked me his bottle of Lucozade.  I said I couldn't take it, but he insisted, saying “it’s hot out there mate, so you need it more than I do”.

He wasn't wrong about the heat.  If I was ripe before, then I was becoming steadily less fragrant.  My final lift was from a young couple in a Punto on their way to a house party in Port Seton.  Brilliant – a 90 mile lift all the way home to Dunbar!  The rapid rolling down of both of their windows suggested they were suddenly less enthusiastic about the idea of spending over an hour in the car with me.

The lad said that he always tried to stop for hitchhikers because he’d lived in Norway for a spell, and it is much bigger over there.  Because, over there, waiting too long for a bus in the wrong weather could see you dead.  Fair point.

A longer journey with them meant that there was more questioning of who I was, what I did, and how I came to be hitchhiking in football kit.  I didn't think that admitting to being a corporate lawyer who’d got stupidly drunk and thought it would be a laugh to hitchhike was the most sympathetic story I could come up with, so I lied and said that I’d be on a stag night as my brother’s best man and had been pranked.  Who knows if they believed that.  I also told them that I had a job in the workshop at the cement works.  The guy said that there was a Lafarge plant near them in Tunstead.  “Is there?  I mean, yes, yes there is.”  I was cut out for a career in MI6 as you can see.

They dropped me off in a lay-by just outside of Dunbar, and I ran over a couple of fields back to the house, getting in a little after 12.30 in the afternoon.  To be met in the kitchen by Jo, and my Mum and Dad.  My Dad (who was apparently so worried that he had walked off the golf course mid round) proceeded to rip through me at volume and at length.  “You’re a father now, you have responsibilities…”!!!  And so on and so forth.  I listened to this without putting up much of a fight, aware that the opinion of (a very quiet) Jo was going to mean more.  Amazingly, when my Dad had finally run out of steam and fury, Jo simply shrugged, said that my Dad had pretty much covered it all, and that she was just glad that I’d made it back ok.  Thank God for that!!!

The mood softened quite quickly as I related my adventures.  Sensing that I was going to get away with it, I became more animated and enthusiastic.  And although perhaps not something you would necessarily plan, I ended up getting a huge amount out of it.  It was an extremely life-affirming experience, and one that helped to restore my faith in people.  Although it sometimes might not seem it, it turns out there are still a lot of decent, kind, generous people out there who are willing to offer a helping hand. 

My Mum thought that it all sounded “very exciting” and suggested that I should write a book about it, at which point my Dad growled “don’t encourage him Margaret!”  Hmm, I’d need to do a hell of a lot more “research” to spin it out into a book…

PR NB TB PB

For the second Saturday in a row I made my way down to Cramond for ParkRun.  The weather forecast was less good this week, in that there was meant to be a South-Westerly wind, rather than the perfect calm that graced us last.  But Jack and Jamie both had hockey at 9am, only a mile or two away, so there was no good reason not to run.

Strangely I managed to complete it in exactly the same time as last week (17:50), despite the stiff breeze into my face on the homeward half.  My first mile this week (with the wind) was actually slower than last, and I felt more comfortable at the finish, which probably demonstrates something about the benefits of adopting a proper approach to pacing.  So the same time, but arguably a better run.

Andrew producing another trademark strong finish

[RESULTS]

I got home to find a very welcome message on Facebook – Peter asking if anyone was coming out to play on Sunday.  Ya beauty!  With Stuart (and Anne) still on holiday in Italy, I had resigned myself to another lonely/boring long marathon training run.  The thought of company, and a chance to learn some of Peter’s routes (particularly around Binning Wood and Seacliffe), cheered me up no end.

Because I had a need to be at my Mum and Dad’s in town for tea at 6pm, and because Peter couldn't get a train out to NB until 11.06, I elected to dump the car near “Tam Bides Here” and run what ought to have been the last 4 or so miles first.  With plenty of leeway until PB was due to arrive, I took my time, meandered around a bit (e.g. going down to the beach at NB for no particular reason other than that I could), and frequently slowed right down to have a bloody good nose at some interesting cottages and houses with nice gardens.

Our first destination was the top of the Law.  The visibility was excellent, although unfortunately you might not be able to tell from the photos I was able to take with Jamie’s camera – it is fine for close stuff, but its zoom isn't up to much.  You’d be better checking out the pictures on Peter’s blog.  If you do, it is worth considering that he has a hair trapped in the mechanism that leaves a squiggle in the top right corner of every single picture.  Which he has to painstakingly photoshop out.  Given how many pictures he takes, that is a lot of photoshopping.  Anyway, I didn't take as many pictures as Peter did.

Not long for this world :-(

Coming off the Law, and heading down the John Muir Way towards East Linton, we crossed paths with Dot, Billy and Gemma.  I love when that happens.  Although running can be quite a solitary pursuit (and I do enjoy time on my own with my own thoughts), I really appreciate the sense of community that exists and the friends that I have made over the past few years since joining Dunbar.  I guess seeing other faces I know makes me feel like an insider, one of the gang, “a runner”!

The next stop of note was the curling pond at the Balgone Estate.  I had seen Peter blog about it before, but in my head had thought it was nearer to Newbyth/Binning Wood.  Indeed, I hadn’t realised that I had been so close to it – simply a question of a 90 degree turn, and a few hundred yards off of the JMW - but obscured by trees, it was totally invisible to me.  We had a bit of a chat about how often it could have been used for curling, and I recalled hearing that the Thames used to freeze much more frequently 100 or so years ago.  A bit of googling reveals that it was slightly longer ago than 100 years – more like 300!

“Even at its peak, in the mid-17th century, the Thames freezing at London was less frequent than modern legend sometimes suggests, never exceeding about one year in ten except for four winters between 1649 and 1666. From 1400 to the removal of the now-replaced medieval London Bridge in 1835, there were 24 winters in which the Thames was recorded to have frozen over at London”

But I guess a smaller body of water would freeze more easily, so it must still have been cold enough that it seemed like a good idea to create a pond specifically for curling.  Apparently there used to be one at the foot of the Law as well.  The bottom line though is that it is very picturesque (no photo found!) and the little cabin there must be a great spot to while away a warm summer’s evening.

After rejoining the JMW, Peter pointed out a very narrow landing strip cut into a grass field.  If he hadn’t told me what it was I’d never have recognised it for what it was - it looked pretty precarious.

We carried on past “Stink Farm”, up the hill and over into East Linton.  After I worked out that we were into a new month for Tynecastle Bronze purposes, we made sure to find a war memorial, and then headed out along the Tyne towards first Hailes Castle where we had a snack, and then on to Traprain Law.  The ponies were out in force and happy enough to pose for the camera.

The perspective in this one is fun - if only I'd managed to get Peter "standing" on my shoulder...

Reaching the Co-op at East Linton for the second time, we stocked up on provisions, which in my case were mainly liquid – I’d brimmed my hydration reservoir with 2 litres before the off, but had used it all already.  We were making very good time though, despite very much sparing the horses – Peter suggesting that I was keeping him honest; dissuading him from chasing off into fields for 10 minutes at a time in search of butterflies.  I was amused by his line that he could easily spend an hour “taking pictures of the sole of his own shoe”.

After a brief road stretch we made our way into Binning Wood.  The chat was at such a high intensity at this point however that, despite having a general sense of it being really lovely, I can’t for the life of me remember the route that we took through it.  Ah well, I guess that is part of the fun of woods – there is no one “right route” anyway.

We then crossed the A198 and went down Limetree Walk to the beach near St Baldred’s Cradle.  The tide was right in, so we had to climb up and round the back of the first rocky outcrop. The path was a little overgrown, so I managed to clatter into a woody shrub with my knee.  On first inspection it didn't look like it had done any damage, but after trying to run on a few yards, something “didn't feel right”.  I looked again and saw that there was a puncture wound in the centre of the skin over my knee cap.  Feeling around it revealed that I had a splinter of something (which turned out to be a thick woody thorn) roughly matchstick-sized under the skin.  Although not terribly sore, it was a little off-putting having to work at it from the other end, trying to push it back out far enough that I could get purchase on it to pull.  No real harm done though – lucky that it went in where it did and not, for example, into the meat of my quad.

Lego en route from Denmark

We ran along the shore until we reached the Peffer Burn, and then turned inland to make our way to Seacliffe.  Seacliffe is not a beach/estate that I visit very often – partly because it is a little far to run to from Dunbar, and partly because I am a bit tight and grudge paying £3 to park there.  So I enjoyed having another good nosy at the quaint little groupings of cottages, often with gardens and outbuildings filled with wonders!

Getting back to the car, I needed to do a little extra loop to bring me over 30 miles for the day, before thanking Peter for a terrific day out.  A tremendous way to bring my mileage for the week up to a record 72.  Which leaves me pretty happy with the marathon training that I've done.  One more long run this Sunday, and I should be able to start the taper without too much fretting that I've not done enough. 

Ha, yeah right!